Pooh-litically Correct shit

Sometimes thinking people who’re trying to get it right wind up getting it horribly wrong. I applaud them for caring, but I think they’re half the reason people got annoyed enough to vote for Trump.

 

“Tampon Pads” and a floating apostrophe – someone’s drunk and has a pen…

 

Does the term “feminine” seem “blaming” to you? Well… to me deleting it does. It’s not negative to me. I actually think feminine might be a better way to do many things. This rejection of the term makes me think of the way some racial terms keep changing, as if it’s the term that matters, not the way the world operates. They are feminine hygene products. If you’re trans, post-menopausal or identify otherwise, they are still feminine hygene products.

The NAACP knows this. I think it’s hilarious that this petition had only 34 supporters.

I will call people whatever they want to be called. Male, female, he, she and they… which is something I do even though MS Word thinks its wrong. An ex-boyfriend wanted to be called African American. After an hour of pushback, because, you know, I’m actually African as in I have the passport he’d never want, I used the term when talking with him. I adjusted when talking to other friends who prefered “black”. I never use the term “coloured” (note the u) in America, but in Cape Town, sure. Every world has its language. It’s no biggie. Everyone can choose how they’re addressed, as long as it’s not “Your highness”.

But back to the bathroom sign, at the most politically correct venue EVER…

If you’re going to go there, why not include “Adult Diapers”, “condoms” and “cigarettes”, just in case? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen hipsters who protest FOR the Environmental Protection Agency flick cigarettes into the drains that run straight to sea in LA. If you are going to be a pain in the ass political correct person, don’t shirk your responsibility. Take daily action to change things. Like, “be the change”, bro.

Why was I at 18th Street Art’s Center? This amazing traveling show called UNSEAL UNSEAM, which reminded me not to romantisize my recent past. Its a reinterpretation of the opera BLUEBEARD with amazing, subtle and sincere performances. I was moved, and I have a low tolerance for pretension. Here is a link to my friend Alicia Byer’s review on a music blog called NEW CLASSIC LA.

 

Hollywood. Tuesday. Crazy Uber Drivers.

I have a theory about almost everything. I’m adding Uber to the list right now. I encountered two weird drivers tonight.

For the record: Most drivers have been amazing, and I respect what they do. Driving in LA is stressful and most of them handle it with calm and cool conversation.

But not tonight.

The first one stopped across the road from me on Hollywood Blvd – clearly nowhere near my pin. Fine – shit happens. But he hung up the call I made to ask if I should cross the road, then rage-drove around the block to get me. As I got in, he told me I sent him to the wrong place. He was an old guy – the kinda old guy who probably contacts me on dating apps to say he’s “one of the good ones”, which is almost always a sign that he’s been divorced five times and his kids hate him.

He was so obnoxious when I tried to make fun of the app and diffuse it all that I asked him to pull over and canceled the ride.

I walked a while to chill myself out. Passed this:

So some tourist didn’t like the joke. The shitty thing about Hollywood Blvd is it has some of the best bars, but some of the stupidest people… which is a dangerous combination.

I called a new Uber from a half mile South.

The ride started fairly well, though the guy was hard to get off message. When I said I shouldn’t have gone out to a friend’s birthday party because I should have worked, he informed me I’d regret it because friends all betrayed you eventually, like his bros before ‘ho’s buddy whose wife had ruined their friendship.

Via him asking me about my accent (standard Uber chat) he wandered on to talking about Hawaii, and we agreed they were clever when it came to many policies. But, somehow, that led to him saying we didn’t need another president from Hawaii. Too laid back, he said. Achieved nothing. I was surprised to hear this, having been here through most of Obama’s presidency. He asked me to list one thing Obama achieved.

Gay marriage? Not starting a new war? Fixing the financial crisis?

These were all rejected, because apparently the gays get the credit for marriage because they’re rich. And the war thing… he didn’t want to talk about that. And the Financial Crisis? Not that either. Instead, he aggressively repeated the question. I asked why my opinion wasn’t welcome. He repeated the question. I felt like I was 10 with some bully guy holding me against the back-of-the-school wall.

When I tried to shut up for a while, he said that the reason blacks in the USA get nowhere is that they “…don’t come with money – they come with their hands out, saying they were slaves. Yeah I get you were slaves, but I’m Native American and I got nothing.” I made a noise that indicated I wasn’t sure that was logical. I began to say I thought “Black Lives Matter, which I support, was partly a result of the–” and he again demanded to know what Obama achieved.

Given that the man driving weighs about 300 pounds and I… well that’s not for public consumption but MUCH less… I got a bit scared. But I thought I’d steer the conversation away from his now-obvious racism and said: “What about Healthcare”.

He scorned this – claimed only 20 million Americans have healthcare through Obamacare. I tried to explain that he had his figures mixed up with his facts. That’s the number that would lose it with Trumpcare. People have already lost faith and defaulted, but the number is still much higher. (I checked – 38 million).

He shouted me down. Then he told me that as a South African I couldn’t possibly know anything. He was Native American, and by being born here, knew things I didn’t. I said that I tried very had to be informed – and that he clearly wasn’t, not on this issue.

“We don’t care about facts”, he said. This seemed racist against Native Americans to me but I managed not to point that out.

Then, he accused me of supporting apartheid. That’s when I lost my cool a little and said that he was unprofessional.

He said he didn’t care. He kept ranting. I shut up… mostly… I may have pointed out that having a political discussion should involve some facts, and that if he didn’t have any or didn’t know how to politely disagree, he shouldn’t start a conversation about politics with a customer.

As I left the left the car in a hurry not quite home, he shouted “Bitch” out the window of his car.

So sometimes, diffusing conflicts isn’t my thing? But I tried. And failed.

My promised theory about Uber? Demand for drivers is so high that literally anyone who has the right car and applies gets the gig. Even people you’d avoid in a dark alleyway do. I do want people with criminal records to have an option because I know people who have changed after doing pretty hectic stuff, but I’m not sure they should get it without an interview, and some vetting.

CORRECTION: A friend who drives for Uber says there is screening. According to this article that doesn’t mean they’re fingerprinted. Not sure how this compares to Lyft – they do both require abackground chck though.

I still wish I’d paid the double-fee for Lyft. I’ve never had this kind of experience in a Lyft – if that’s a fluke, I’ll keep hoping its a permanent one.

WomensMarchLA – The Signs and the things I missed, being South African.

Going to the women’s march in Los Angeles felt like full circle for me. I marched in South Africa in the early 90s. And here I was again, sticking my finger in the dyke hoping that some action would prevent complete disaster. If you check out my instagram (jeanbarkerza), I have video of (not that but) a Trump Pinata and also the crowd chanting “hey hey, ho ho, please don’t fall /out the window” to a fifth-floor hipster.

Meeting up with friends? Not possible. The cell companies didn’t get their shit together, so it was impossible to connect, but that was fine. I wasn’t there to socialize, I was there to protest and march.

The only thing I really missed was the toyi-toying and the singing. I didn’t miss the teargas. I hope that by the next march, I will be able to teach LA folks the basics of joyous protesting, SA style. Here are some quick tips, with humor. My favorite line: “I am black.”

You see, toyi-toying allows you to to occupy yourself while you’re occupying, because marching, as the newbies surrounding me learned, mostly involves (legally, anyhow) standing around waiting for the cops to get their shit together. Also, you get to sing.

One of my faves. TRUMP HAS A PICTURE OF PUTIN ABOVE HIS RACECAR BED.

While we waited, LA women of all races discussed their careers, kids, and yoga classes. I never found out what the Bug was about. Trump Bugs Me?

There’s always a hipster at anything in LA. MEN OF QUALITY DEMAND EQUALITY. And facial hair. And stencils.

HAVE WE REALLY EVOLVED?

It’s called being there. “TODAY’S TWEET: “LOOK AT ALL THE FAKE PEOPLE AT THAT ‘FAKE NEWS’ EVENT”

WE THE PEOPLE. also TOO MANY THINGS TO FIT ON ONE SIGN. But then again, that’s why there were more than 100, 000 of us.

Nobody was arrested, even if they were breaking the law. See: Lady on Fire Escape. I actually literally didn’t see any cops, just a couple of fire engines.

PUSSY GRABS BACK. A popular topic. I enjoy the idea of all the parents that brought their kids explaining to kids what Kegels are, and why it’s mommy’s choice to do them. I didn’t see a poster that said “Talk to your child about orgasms”.

PUSSY HATS, everywhere. Downtown was swarmed. None of the cell towers worked anymore.

Dogs know. RESPECT THE PUSSY.

THE POWER OF THE PEOPLE IS STRONGER THAN THE PEOPLE IN POWER

TINKLE, TINKLE LITTLE CZAR. PUTIN PUT U WHERE U ARE.

I’M TOO BROKE TO BURN MY BRA. OR MY US FLAG VEIL.

LIKE SOMETHING ELSE WE KNOW

IF YOU ARE NEUTRAL IN SITUATIONS OF INJUSTICEE YOU HAVE CHOSEN THE SIDE OF THE OPPRESSOR – DESMOND TUTU (SOUTH AFRICA)

This nutjob kinda didn’t get it and kept shouting TRUMP IS A BITCH! TRUMP IS A BITCH!

WE SHALL OVER COMB. Cute.

Trump supporters, presumably some big company / superpac that wants unions destroyed, flew a plane over the march, with a banner reading CONGRATULATIONS PRESIDENT TRUMP. I guess when you can’t get boots on the ground, boots that are made for walking, you just pay to play.

And, in summary… Let’s just forget about the past and MOVE ON, TRUMPIES!

Self-Storage: A place to keep your crap

I used Self-Storage once, while between apartments, and had an odd, melancholic conversation with an uber driver on the way to pick something up out of it.

Self-storage is to private property what obesity is to great food in America – a serious problem. A kind of addiction. A greedy perversion of what should be a pleasure and a human right.

This inspired my latest News24 Column.

Recently, I was about to move in with someone, and realistically needed to ditch 90% of what I own. Plates, cups, furniture, duplicate soda stream machine, microwave, toaster… you get the picture. That’s okay. I thought it was. I’ve been forced to reduce, toss, get rid of and let go of things many, many times over the years, though I will confess to keeping an entire 500 LP and 600 CD record collection at my Ma’s house, and the record player and a few other boxes at my Dad’s. But aside from that, I’m willing to let go. Yet I thought, for a moment, about getting self-storage. You know, just in case his soda stream broke and we, you know… needed mine.

And then I realized how crazy that was. How sad. How utterly expensive. I realized this urge was all about the fear of change – that somehow my identity was – is – tied up in this mere stuff. And in disgust, I made a list of only what I wanted to keep. Everything else, anything I can’t remember, must go.

In the process of researching why I was having so much trouble doing this, using my favorite analyst, Google, I also found these entertaining advertisements, mostly from one New York company, Manhattan Mini Storage. New York city may be the only place where self-storage is justifiable, and these guys’ adverts are like an American version of SA’s Nando’s Chicken’s, which make fantastic use of opportunities to satirize politics in South Africa and Southern Africa.

Nando’s agencies do their jobs so well that their ads get banned, as they did for this takedown of Zimbabwean Dictator Robert Mugabe.

Gay marriage is just as annoying as straight marriage, as it turns out. It’s very hard to de-clutter a shared space. It begins to be about territory.

 

Ouch.

 

People don’t know what they store. The reason it’s in storage is it’s of no use to them.

 

New York political snobbery. Another billboard mocks “secret republicanism”

 

I know people like this. My desk used to be pretty messy, when I had an office job. No longer.

Wait, what is this? This looks like something I need in my life right now. A service that comes and cleans up my future room mate’s junk, so that I can easily move 10% of what I now own into the space I’m sharing?

No such luck, baby. It’s just another storage place.

Turns out it’s physical “cloud” storage. They pick up your items, catalogue them and store them with other folks’, and retrieve them when you ask them to.

 

A New Beginning

Fuck you, Santa, invention of the Coca-Cola company… And here’s why.

After everything that’s gone down – previous posts have more than enough detail for public life – I’m here in LA. I stayed. I found a place that I fell in love with, and a landlord that would trust a freelancer who hadn’t worked for a month, and just enough work to pay my rent, while I write, and dream, and pray that my space in this place opens up, soon.

Nothing can describe the feeling of having a home again, after two months of depending on the kindness of my boyfriend (who thought he was shot of me) and my friends. I woke up at dawn to an unfamiliar sound on one of my first nights here, feeling full of gratitude and snapped this before I cuddled back up again to sleep more.

At first, it was bliss. And then there was Christmas. Like a monster from hell.

I thought I might never see these trees lit up in Koreatown again. But here they are. I survived another year in LA.

With Christmas came the agonizing sensation that I was supposed to be somewhere else. Something about holidays makes you long for unconditional love, and nothing else is enough, and so I missed my mother, and the plans we had for long swims in Cape Town’s cold, sharky, gorgeous seas, and the chance to see my friends’ new babies and growing children before it was too late, and everybody forgot about me.

I also began to hate my female form, and all the limitations it imposes. As my ex got remarried and began posting honeymoon and wedding photos on facebook for our former mutual friends to “like”, I drowned in self pity, imagining how, next, he would have the babies he took from me, with his new, younger, fertile bride. I would never have a family. I would be alone in this world, without that love, after my mother and father were dead.

The bitterness and neediness engulfed me.

I was sure the answer to this question was “nothing”. I heard on the radio about how old Chinese people who have no families just starve to death. I thought, that’ll be me. I’ll be digging in the trash when I’m 75…

But then I survived Christmas, and New Year came and went, and finally, men from the government began to take down the signs and symbols of my social failure. The bells of joy began ringing again as everybody went back to work.

So, eventually, the holidays ended, and with it, my gloom lifted. Now, I work, and I feel like I’m whole again. I no longer lack what everybody else has. The doors of marriage and kids slamming in my face may be limitations, but they allow me to focus on my art, my writing, and on a last-minute future that means that even if I am left rotting somewhere when I’m 70, tens, hundreds and thousands and maybe even millions of people will have read, watched, or cried over a story I wrote or directed. At least, that’s my dream.

So, what do I mean, in this world? I don’t quite know.

Sure, what we really, really want to mean, is love. Unconditional love. Only this gives our lives meaning, really, and money and fame can’t compensate. We want love, love that would overcome its fears to claim or save us. But if that never comes my way, success of some other kind will have to get me through the night.

And it will get me through the night. So go ahead. Boast of your joy. Post all the engagements, wedding photos, baby pics, back to school pics and relationship status updates you like. One day, when you’re sitting opening Christmas gifts with your grandchildren, I’ll be alone in a hotel room, somewhere far, far away, answering fan mail and weeping with self pity.

But that will only last until about Jan 5th, and then I’ll be fine again.

 

 

Omens, visas and impossible life decisions

So, the world’s being weird to me. So weird it’s spooky.

Not quite the dream I had in mind.

Those who know me know I call myself an atheist. As in, I don’t believe in a godhead. The idea of a human figure running things is preposterous to me. Any spiritual force able to control and link all the world’s creatures is surely more ambiguous and more complicated than the dude in any of the books.

That doesn’t mean I don’t experience what other people call a spiritual life (I’ve seen a ghost), or enjoy religious rituals occasionally, particularly when it comes to the part where you eat and drink feel gratitude for the good things you have.

Being an atheist also doesn’t mean I don’t believe in forces beyond my control. Recently, I’ve been reminded that I have no choice but to do so, because I’ve felt like the world has been trying to tap me on the shoulder and tell me that I’m nobody. I’m nothing. I’m at the mercy of “It”, whatever “It” is.

I don’t know. I’m probably a pretty shitty atheist.

See, while I was trying to depart the USA for South Africa via the UK, first my sandles broke. Odd, timing wise, but no biggie. Then my other sandles broke, too. Then my car broke. But I found my way to the airport.

So close, and yet so very far.

Then, they didn’t let me on the plane because I lacked a UK transit visa. And then, just coincidentally, the UK visa site was down, so I couldn’t apply for a transit visa.

As a young twasa and soon to be sangoma who approached me uninvited in a bar once told me, you ignore messages from the spirit world at your peril. Two days ago, I decided to listen to what I think the world is saying. I was going to get a new apartment in Cali, and see how that went for a year or so. If I didn’t, I feared that the next thing “It” would do is break my legs to keep me here.

Of course, I didn’t get the apartment because they don’t take freelancers and I don’t have six months rent to advance the landlord – not after everything I’ve had to deal with recently. That’s the one landlord that replied to me at all. Most just let me twist in the wind.

So I’m back to nowheresville, limboing from day to day, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now. The world and people around me seem unreal, and I’m never sure where I’m waking up until I open my eyes and look around me.

This Shit is Bananas. No kidding.

Life’s full of bumps. Yes. And oddly, all the images on this post were snapped in the last 48 hours – as if some all powerful force feels the need to state the bleeding obvious every time I round a street corner.

I know things could be worse, so I’m trying to stay grateful, but I feel physically tired and heavy and very afraid right now.

I wrote about UK Visas and Human Kindness  (hint: they’re opposing forces) in my News24 column this week.

Homelessness… could never happen to me?

(Scroll down if you just want to see the pictures)

The subject of a screenplay I’m writing said something in answer to an interview question: that before she went to America, she imagined it being this perfect world, this wonderland free of prejudice and poverty. Having seen the USA with her own eyes and worked there a month, she returned to South Africa with a new appreciation for her homeland.

This is the truth. South Africans visiting Europe tend not to encounter real life there. But, take the train a few miles out of Barcelona’s quaint center, and you’ll see where how most people really eke out a living, in high-rise apartments. Maybe it’s better than where they came from. Maybe it’s not, but they’re in love with the dream.

America is both worse than I ever imagined and better than I ever dreamed. And yes, I’m staying, on what’s charmingly called an “Alien of Extraordinary Ability” visa. I must love it here, or I wouldn’t have gone through the trauma of the tough and bank-balance-erasing application process, just to complete a few projects!

But it’s no easy ride. Recently I’ve been reminded of how easy it is to fall off the wagon in America, and how hard it can be to get back on once you’re off.

You see people living under bridge and you think: “Well, that would never happen to me.

“I work hard! I don’t suffer from PTSD. Any psychological conditions I suffer from (like radical liberalism) are manageable. I’ve got some sources of income to fall back on. I never sign up for new credit cards, no matter how many offers those snakes at American Express, Capital One, Chase and the other banks send me without my consent, to an address they shouldn’t have in the first place… “

But because I’m home to South Africa for a while, I had to give up my apartment. It’s rent controlled, which means it only cost me $800 a month when I moved in. I gave notice a month ago. Last week, I saw my apartment advertised at $1025 a month – because rent control only lasts until a new tenant moves in. I’m going to have to find about 20% more rent money when I return, to live in one of LA’s cheapest neighborhoods!

And that got me thinking: What if I went away to Iraq for two years to fight a war, came back damaged and with a missing leg, serious PTSD, and a drinking problem? How would I ever find my way back home, then?

The truth is, very few people do.

Hence this rather fiery NEWS24 COLUMN.

The tunnel. Is there any way out of this?

The resident. He kisses pigeons. His nickname is “Birdman”.

House, phase I. Just a drawing on a wall, with the owner sleeping in front. This is back in December 2014 – note the Christmas Tree and snowman.

House, phase II, after a few weeks of habitation.

Current house, with “Stunning Mountain Views” courtesy Skidrobot.

Homeless people are everywhere in California. It’s not the America you see on TV, that’s for sure.

Obama: He just can’t win because he’s…

Poor fucking President Barack Obama. The dude is easily the most intelligent American president I’ve come across, and he’s desperately trying to keep his election promises, but the GOP congress insists on treating him like he’s just being uppity all the time. And it’s clear to me that he’s not afforded the same respect as other presidents.

For instance, look at how nobody paid any attention to what he actually said about military strategy today and chose to focus, instead, on what he was wearing while he said it.

Yes, he’s hot. Damn, that man is hot. Specially in that suit. But try to concentrate okay?

And then there’s this garbage…

I mean, seriously… “Humiliates Prez”? I realize this is The Inquirer, but did they run these kinds of stories about Bush? I don’t know. Perhaps they did. Someone share them if they exist.

This just in: Blinking is now considered sexual harassment. If you’re “Prez” Obama.

Every time he takes a day off, it’s because he’s a lazy you know what. The reality is, he’s the hardest working president for a long, long time.

I don’t get it. Except I do. The worst thing about American-brand racism is the denial.

Shots from a shoot

I worked background (as a film extra) last night, on a feature film shooting night for day in an LA coffeeshop. Now anyone who’s ever worked as cast on a film set knows you spend most of your time waiting to be called to set, and we were stationed on the sidewalk to make space for the shooting and setups inside. So I divided my energy between wandering around taking pictures of what I could find in a 30 foot radius, and reading a novel called Jamesland (pretty good, if you like stories about messed up women) on my kindle.

The great thing about Beverly Blvd is it’s paradise for sign-bloggers. Stenciling has taken off, and is very hard to remove from pavements. Obscure alterations dot traffic signs. And there’s always someone with a lost dog or something weird to sell you or tell you.

A stencil on the ground shows a guy reading a book, but it looks like he’s peeing. In the background, a member of the cast takes a break.

Stingers curled around a cool stencil saying “Publish Enemies”. It’s a viral (probably illegal, but I’d bet the fine is less than doing it legally) campaign for a comics / TV brand you can follow on Twitter as @publishenemies

“Sheep needs a facelift. Draw here.” I think personally, I’d rather be a live sheep than a dead crosswalk activist. But I’ve seen mothers using their kids and babies in strollers as human shields to jay-walk, so perhaps I’m just not as trendy as they are.

 

I am convinced this is a joke. But in Hollywood, you really never know. All I can say is that if this dog is “like their child” I hope we never have to watch the live birth video of its exit from the vaginal canal, because that would be gross.

 

Found another day, just up the road. I actually spotted this guy (without any dogs) a few days later. He looks happy, but not like the type to wear pearls or care about cash.

 

Grumpy Cat says more money should go towards providing shelters for homeless animals, but Republican cats think this will only encourage more cats to be homeless. Snapped on La Brea on the way home from set at 6am.

As massive as LA is, as huge a hub as it is for the film business, I was struck by how small it was when I arrived on set to discover that half the crew (including the Cinematographer) were from Chapman too, and the producer was South African. You can always tell when a set is full of Chapman alumni because of the singing and friendliness that comes with the hard work and long hours. And despite any gripes I may have against the school, I say that with some pride in my former film school.

God’s wrath against dildos and porn and parking violations

I found this on Facebook, captioned “Haha! Here’s a pic of storm damage on I-75 near the Huntsville-Oneida exit.”

The storm is real. Look how green that grass is. All the poisonous lawn dye in LA can’t give a lawn the glow of real rain.

Oh, how I wish it weren’t Fake. This is a rare case of me being on the same page as Christians, but mostly because I think it’s so funny, and I love coincidences. But if you want REAL punishment from God, for accidental crimes, when you least expect it, check out how much this LA tow van looks like it’s hauling a crucifix, on which it will one day crucify your car.

Suffer and die, crappy car that can’t afford a garage…

I got towed, recently. Cost me almost $600 – that’s about 10 days work at what I get paid at the moment, gone, just for being a few inches over a red line. And if you don’t pay your fines here, they put you in jail. For real. It’s kinda depressing, that you could go to jail just for being too poor to make mistakes everybody makes, while celebs can get wasted and drive into lamp posts and walk free the next day.